Page 5 of Obsession

He sat behind his desk. “Oh, really?”

“Your lobby is stark and unapproachable. Your desk security needs training.”

“Obviously, since he let you upstairs without an appointment.”

“Don’t blame George.”

“George?”

“That’s his name. George. Your seventy-ish-year-old security guard of one of the most security-conscious glass companies of our age.”

His fingers drummed against the glass before he sat back and steepled them together. “I know who my security guard is, Ms. Copeland. I want to know why you do.”

“Because I talked him through the login of his iPad.”

He tapped his two forefingers together. “You weren’t on the list. And still, you’re sitting in my office. Why shouldn’t I call said security and have you escorted out?”

“Because you need me.” I leaned back in my chair, mirroring his stance. Well, except for the fingers thing. Only hot guys with long fingers could pull off that look without looking like Smithers fromThe Simpsons.

“Is that right?”

“Is it your standard practice to have your reception area manned by Mr. Hollister—who is probably one of your top executives,” I prompted.

He touched his lips with the side of his fingers. “CEO.”

“Exactly. Your CEO is not supposed to be fielding your assistants for an interview. In fact, your CEO’s assistant should probably be handling that.”

He dropped his hands to grip the arms of his chair. His fingers were distracting. “And what qualifications do you have? Since you aren’t with an agency, do you have a résumé?” He inclined his head. “You seem to be a stickler for the rules, and yet you’re breaking every single one.”

My heart slammed against my sternum. I tried to pull any details I could remember about Blake Carson out of my head. Brilliant. Runaway success with his glass innovation. Took Boston by storm. That was about it. I was more of a sea town girl. I liked my little corner of the world. I was close enough to Boston to get culture when I wanted it, but for the most part, I just wanted to be in my workshop.

His face remained impassive, but those golden hazel eyes were finally firing. The indifference had fallen away, and I knew that I had one chance to impress him. He was new money. He was still proving himself.

Probably would be until he was fifty in this city.

“I’ll leave you alone to be brilliant. You will run this place like the billion-dollar company I know it is. I’m organized, personable where you obviously are not, and can read a person within five minutes of meeting them.”

“So, your interview technique is to insult me?”

I swallowed, and though I was pretty sure it was audible, I lifted my chin. “Yes. Because obviously, you’re a bear. Or you’d have an assistant sitting out there right now. And you wouldn’thave papers scattered on what is usually a pristine desk. Am I close?”

He stood, and I prayed the jackrabbit who had taken up residence in my chest couldn’t be heard. He walked around the desk and sat on the edge in front of me. He peered down at me, and I suddenly wished for his impassive eyes again.

Being scrutinized was not my favorite thing. I’d never acted like a typical rich kid. Evidently, that was a good thing since I wasn’t anymore.

He glanced at my hands, and I curled them into my palms. Chipped nail polish and burn scars didnotsay office manager. I was more comfortable with my iron frames and blow torches than I was a computer, but I could use one—and use it well.

I’d only killed a few keyboards over the years. Not the whole computer or anything.

“And why do you want to fix me?”

I opened my mouth. He really hadn’t asked me that, had he? “Excuse me?”

“If I’m such a bear, as you’ve said, why would you want to come in here and fix my office?”

Right. Office.

Not him.

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